I CAN'T DO IT

“I know I have to try. There has to be away, some way to actually do it, some way to actually finish a flash fiction without someone dying.” I tell myself as I pause at the keyboard.

It’s not easy.

Behind my eyes people die, people explode or get crushed under falling debris, but not tonight, tonight, no one dies.

My friends have told me I’m odd, weird, a freak maybe. Unable to process the world without seeing death at the end of the tunnel, but I know there has to be a way. I can feel my fingers twitching as I type, trying to make me kill someone, to tighten round their imaginary necks. It wouldn’t matter who, I wouldn’t even need to name them, I could just kill them, and slowly watching as their life leaves the now dead shell I hold by the throat.

“Stop it!” I clench my hands into fists. I must do it; I just have to make it to the end without a blood curdling scream. `You’re, special. ` I’ve was told, but they paused on the word `Special` for a few seconds to long for it to be in a good way, the addition of the `Very special` a moment after, whispered under their breathe for fear of what I might do.

I suppose I should be please, fear is a power, a power I can use if I can focus it. I know I’ll never write children’s fiction; even my poetry is dark and soulless. Its not that my life leads me to it, on the contrary, my life is good. A good supporting family, a beautiful wife and two wonderful children, so its not there that’s the problem.

I did fall on my head as a child; recently I’ve almost cracked my skull on a piece of steel. That’s a story for another day though; I need to focus on the job at hand. I just don’t know if I can do it, I really don’t. It’s starting to worry me a little, even my dreams contain murder most foul, or death by gerbil.

The problem is though, if I’m honest, that I don’t really want to be fixed, to be made normal. Normal looks so dull and boring, so… so very… well, normal. I don’t know if I can live in a world where there’s no death, no Ninja squirrels hell bent on destroying the world, no small bed bugs ready to lay eggs up your nose or behind your eyes.

The pistol feels heavy in my hands, so cold and solid in a world of thought and death. I wish I could write a piece without someone dying. I really do. I just don’t know if I can finish something without bloodshed. I cock the firing pin and place the barrel under my chin. I just can’t do it…